The curtains swish and billow in the gentle breeze.
They quiver slightly, laughing at all who think they know more.
For although they appear lifeless and still,
They hold more secrets than a young girl’s diary.
They look down upon all who tread through the house,
And carefully observe everything that goes on outside.
They see all that occurs, and keep it to themselves
Until night, when they whisper their mysteries into the currents of wind.
No one quite knows of the eyewitness
That lies in the comfort of their own home.
But nothing is private, no matter is confidential.
It is instead soaked into the dust-layered ripples of fabric
That hang on the windows, watching every move that is made.
One should be overly grateful that their curtains lack a gossiping mouth.
Just for now are their secrets safe.
They quiver slightly, laughing at all who think they know more.
For although they appear lifeless and still,
They hold more secrets than a young girl’s diary.
They look down upon all who tread through the house,
And carefully observe everything that goes on outside.
They see all that occurs, and keep it to themselves
Until night, when they whisper their mysteries into the currents of wind.
No one quite knows of the eyewitness
That lies in the comfort of their own home.
But nothing is private, no matter is confidential.
It is instead soaked into the dust-layered ripples of fabric
That hang on the windows, watching every move that is made.
One should be overly grateful that their curtains lack a gossiping mouth.
Just for now are their secrets safe.